He wasn’t exactly sure what question he was supposed to be answering. He guessed the work one. “I’ve spent the last few years building up the family business.”

Some of the wariness around her eyes faded. “To keep yourself busy.”

He debated going around this subject. If she studied up on him, she knew the horror his family had lived through. Hell, if she’d read a paper or watched one of the two true crime shows that had highlighted his family’s pain, she knew. “We all have our coping mechanisms.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The stress seemed to leave her shoulders as she leaned forward. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“I can’t imag—”

“You can’t.” The response shot out of him. He winced, but it was too late. While the words floated out there, he exhaled, trying to find the right way to explain, then move them quickly to another topic. Any other topic. “Look, I didn’t—”

“No, you’re right.” She slid her hand onto the table. Her fingers traced over the spoon, then the base of the knife. “It’s not my business. Not my life. I couldn’t possibly understand. No one else could.”

“Basically.”

“Sudden, tragic, shocking loss stays with you. The questions. What you could have done. If you’d been faster. If you’d seen the truth earlier. It eats at you.”

The churning came back, that anxious dropping feeling that repeated in his stomach. He’d been fighting it for years, pushing it away and burying it under work and concern for his parents. But as she spoke, with each word, tamping it down grew harder.

“Yes.” His agreement came out as a strangled whisper. He knew she heard him when she nodded.

“Your salads.”

The comment didn’t register until the waitress set down the plate of greens in front of him. Like last time, she stayed only long enough to take care of business, refill the water glasses, and go.

“I’ve debated the right protocol here. Should I pretend I don’t know what happened to your sister?” Maddie asked while she moved the croutons around with her fork.

“No.” He hated that. He also hated the words of comfort. Really there was no right way or good way to approach him on this subject. The man who killed his sister killed a piece of every family member. Stole their sense of normal, forever tilting it.

“I’m assuming you worked yourself silly to avoid dealing with her death and are now trying to recuperate.” She ended the thought by taking a bite of the salad.

“I dealt with her murder,” he said, noticing that she swallowed hard enough for him to see her throat move. “What?”

“Really?”